


Archangel

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, Venezia | Venice, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23845054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: After Armageddon't, Crowley and Aziraphale take some time to travel the world. In Venice, however, some truths about Crowley's past come to light, just as Aziraphale hopes their relationship will become something more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 222





	Archangel

Venice is a nice city. All the cities they’ve visited have been nice, but the angel Aziraphale thinks that, so far, Venice might be his favorite. The canals are—mostly—picturesque, the buildings are—mostly—gorgeous, and the company is—mostly—enjoyable.

“Honestly,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, “can you behave in a mature manner for longer than a few minutes?”

Crowley looks up, eyes twinkling behind the ostentatious mask he’s picked up. It’s one of many from a small stand situated along one of the canals. Crowley is in the midst of affixing to his face; his sunglasses dangle from the front of his shirt, tugging it down slightly. In spite of himself, Aziraphale feels a surge of attraction at the glimpse of his throat.

“This is perfectly _mature_ ,” Crowley retorts, his voice a parody of Aziraphale’s accent on the last word. “This is what Venetians do, innit, wear masks and cavort about?”

“Not all the time,” Aziraphale says with a put-upon sigh. “They do have lives outside Carnival. It isn’t always… cavorting.”

“Well, that’s rubbish,” Crowley says, now examining himself in the reflection of a nearby shop window. “Everyone needs a good bit of cavorting.”

He’s selected, predictably, a mask with a great deal of gleaming red and black scales and even what looks to be a leather forked tongue flickering out of the bottom. Aziraphale has very little faith it is traditional; most of the masks for sale here appear to be cheap versions for tourists, in shapes that would more likely appear at a masquerade in France than here. He supposes the true Venetian masks are sold elsewhere in the city.

“Come on, Angel,” Crowley says, “try one.”

Aziraphale hesitates, then lifts one and examines it. It’s a simple black round mask, apparently held in place by a small bit of plastic that he supposes goes in between the teeth. He takes a moment to fantasize about swapping Crowley’s snake mask with this one, imagining with a touch of vindictive pleasure Crowley’s affront when he realized he couldn’t speak while wearing it.

He puts the mask back. “I’d rather not,” he says, even as he resolves to let Crowley have his fun. “You’re being ridiculous and attractive enough for both of us.”

Crowley’s gaze shoots up to meet his. He doesn’t reply, though he opens and closes his mouth a few times in surprise. Aziraphale can see his cheeks redden beneath the mask, and he is pleased he can fluster Crowley so.

This isn’t new, this flirtation; Aziraphale has recently recognized that he’s practically been wooing Crowley for the better part of four millennia, at least in his mind. It is only in the last few years, since the failed end of the world, that he’s taken pains to be deliberate in showing his affection. Needless to say, he’s been surprised but delighted to experience Crowley’s enthusiastic reciprocation.

Still, moments like this when Crowley is caught off guard are enjoyable.

Crowley pauses, then unties the Carnival mask and lifts it from his face, replacing it on the display. He whips his sunglasses back on his face, and steps back toward Aziraphale.

“Can I take you to lunch?” he asks softly, face still a furious red to match his hair.

Aziraphale beams at him and takes his hand. “Lead the way.”

They dine at a sinfully delicious restaurant, where he chats with the waiter between courses. They order a three course dinner, and although that’s highly unconventional for midday, Aziraphale feels no repentance for it. He might as well be a fallen angel now anyway, and he doesn’t mind at all, if it means he gets to indulge like this.

Crowley eats much faster than he does, rather snakelike in the way he gulps down the food as if he’s starving. He then spends the rest of the meal watching Aziraphale, who finds he rather enjoys the scrutiny. It is satisfying, knowing that Crowley’s attention stems not only from a sense of companionship, but also attraction.

He takes the last sip of his coffee, not failing to notice the way Crowley’s eyes stay on his throat. He hopes he can keep up this level of flirtation, of romance, throughout the rest of the day. Because it _is_ romantic, isn’t it? A meal in Venice with the being he most adores, with the rest of the afternoon stretching out before them, full of promise. Perhaps they can even progress beyond flirtation at last.

“Ready, Angel?” Crowley asks when Aziraphale sits back with a contented sigh, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

He nods and takes Crowley’s hand once more, giving it a squeeze. “When you are, my dear.”

Next, they make their way to the Palazzo Ducale, in front of which Aziraphale stops in his tracks in awe, taking in the imposing architecture. Dozens of people are milling about, waving those extendable rods with mobiles attached to the ends, or posing with street performers in the square.

“Oh, Crowley, look!” He points. “Look at those lovely sculptures!”

He moves forward, dragging Crowley with him, to get a closer look. On each of the corners of the building is a statue of a humanoid figure. The nearest one is a figure carved from pale stone, wearing flowing robes. Aziraphale peers up in awe; he’s always astounded at the talents of humans, especially in things like this.

“Look how realistic the robes look,” he gushes, pointing.

Crowley doesn’t reply, though, and Aziraphale glances around at him with a frown.

Crowley’s gone pale and rigid, staring up at the statue with an inscrutable expression on his face. His jaw has tightened, and his hand is clammy in Aziraphale’s grasp.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks, then realizes what a foolish question that was. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley shakes his head, as if trying to ward off a tiresome fly. “N-nothing, I…” He swallows, voice apparently failing him. “I…”

He drops Aziraphale’s hand and steps away—or rather, staggers. Aziraphale watches him go, bewildered.

The romantic holiday has ended, it seems, though Aziraphale cannot fathom what has gone wrong.

They’ve been all around the globe over the last few months—Brazil, the Caribbean, Japan, Indonesia, Ethiopia, South Africa, Portugal, then here. It’s been a whirlwind of adventure and learning how to be affectionate, and Aziraphale hasn’t wanted it to stop.

He hadn’t thought it would, really.

But what is it about this sculpture that has so upset Crowley? Or was it something Aziraphale had said or done?

He stares up at the stone figure, as if it will come to life and explain.

Then, behind him, he hears a cheerful voice in accented English. He turns to find a tour guide and a cluster of tourists, gazing up at the Palazzo.

“—And this is a statue of the angel Raphael—”

Aziraphale stiffens. He hadn’t realized this portrays an angel. Still, he doesn’t understand why Crowley would have been so upset by the sight. He seemed so affected, as if seeing this figure hurt him… personally.

He gazes in the direction Crowley had gone, starting to understand. But if what he suspects is true…

He needs to find Crowley.

Dodging around the tour group, Aziraphale sets off to find his wayward demon.

Long minutes pass before he locates him, in a secluded canal near the one peddling novelty masks. Crowley is slumped against a wall, staring unseeing into the water of the canal. Aziraphale approaches, but stops a few steps away.

“Crowley?” he murmurs.

Crowley doesn’t move, but Aziraphale sees him swallow. “You’ve figured it out, then.”

Aziraphale wants to go to him, but holds himself back. “I believe so. I’d rather hear it from you, though.”

Silence. Neither of them move. Aziraphale listens to Crowley breathing, unsteady but quiet, as if he’s trying to hide his distress.

“God erased my name. When I... Fell. She took my name away.”

He doesn’t sound bitter or resentful, only resigned.

“But I heard it,” Aziraphale points out. “One of the tour guides said it was—”

Something constricts his throat, something magical and divine. He _knows_ he heard the name, but cannot bring it to mind, cannot speak it. As if it never existed. As if hearing it from that woman’s mouth had been a dream.

“You can’t say it,” Crowley continues, still with such terrible resignation. He has buried his face in his hands now. “It’s gone, Aziraphale.”

“But you know what it is.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Crowley drops his hands, lifts his head, and meets Aziraphale’s eyes. “She erased my name and everything I did—all my heavenly Creations—from the angels’ minds. But not from mine. And, obviously, not from the humans’. I can’t say it, but I still know it.”

Aziraphale stares, aghast. “Why?”

“Punishment, maybe. So I’ll always know exactly what I lost, and maybe so I’ll be reminded unexpectedly, like out there just now.” He waves vaguely to indicate the statue they’ve left behind.

“But... How could She be so cruel?” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley shrugs. “Really, ’s not so bad. At least, up until I Fell, I got to Create. I don’t mind remembering that. The solar system, Alpha Centauri, and all, y’know.”

Aziraphale doesn’t understand how Crowley could possibly _not mind_. How could he accept the memories of all the glorious things he helped forge into being, and yet be unable to continue doing so?

How can someone whose purpose has been stripped away bear recalling how they used to be?

Another thought burns through Aziraphale, yet even as he asks it, he dreads the answer. “Did you and I... Did we know one another? I don’t remember…”

“No. Never had a reason to interact, really. You were one of many soldiers, and I was—” He makes a garbled, horrible noise, then coughs.

Fear and concern propel Aziraphale forward. He closes the space between them in an instant, drops to his knees beside Crowley, and seizes his hands. “Are you all right?”

Crowley sighs, and his hands shake in Aziraphale’s. “I was—” He swallows and shakes his head, a low and frustrated growl emitting from his throat. “I worked with Gabriel. With Michael. To Create.” His eyes are afire, boring into Aziraphale. “Do you understand?”

Aziraphale knew this. Deep down, from the moment this conversation began, he has known this was coming. And yet Crowley’s admission of it, the revelation of the dreadful truth, shatters something within Aziraphale.

Just because he cannot now remember the name of the statue does not mean he does not understand its meaning.

“Archangel,” he whispers.

Crowley closes his eyes and bows his head, a shudder passing through him. A tear escapes from behind his eyelids and traces a path down his cheek. When he speaks, his voice emerges with a waver. “Yes.”

Aziraphale can no longer hold back; he cradles Crowley’s face in his hands. “Oh, my dear.”

In response to those words, or perhaps to the touch, Crowley curls into Aziraphale’s embrace. He is still shaking, likely from the remnants of distress and anxiety at seeing the statue and everything that has come after. Aziraphale holds him tight, murmuring in his ear.

“You’re all right, it’s all right,” he says, though at the same time he wonders how that can possibly be true. How can this ever be truly right? How can Aziraphale ever feel at ease again, knowing exactly how much Crowley has lost, how far he has Fallen? He sighs, wishing he could find some way to miracle away all the pain Crowley has been carrying all these years. “I’m here, my dearest.”

Crowley leans back. His breath is still shaking, his cheeks damp, but there is something present in his expression that Aziraphale has never seen before. Before he can do anything more than reach up to wipe away the lingering tears, Crowley has moved again.

Oh. Oh!

Crowley is kissing him.

The contact is tentative. Aziraphale only has time to notice how soft Crowley’s lips are before the kiss is over, yet even that small touch leaves Aziraphale reeling, aching, reveling.

“Sorry,” Crowley gasps. He pulls away and pushes himself to standing, eyes wide and shining brightest amber behind his sunglasses. “I… I didn’t… I sh—I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” Aziraphale says. Then, when hurt blossoms in Crowley’s expression, he realizes his error and scrambles to his feet. “Wait, _no_ , I wasn’t… I wasn’t agreeing. Quite the opposite.” He extends his arms and is heartened when Crowley takes his hands. “It was certainly unexpected, but… far from unwelcome.”

“Really?”

And oh, in that moment, Aziraphale can think of nothing in all the world he would rather look at than Crowley, and the hopeful way he looks now—eyes wide, lips parted, entirely beautiful.

“Even… knowing what you know now? About who I was?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale frowns. “Why in Heaven do you think that would change things? If anything…” He softens, and frees one hand to brush his fingers along Crowley’s jaw. “If anything, it makes me adore you more.”

Crowley blinks slowly, a crease between his eyebrows. “But why?” he whispers. “I—it… You… It makes me all the worse, to know me as I am now, when you know what I used to be, what I should have stayed. I—I don’t deserve… you. Not now. I never have, really.”

Aziraphale holds his gaze, shaking his head. “Don’t be absurd,” he says, and kisses him.

A muffled gasp of surprise escapes Crowley’s mouth, but he kisses back without hesitation. His arms come up to wrap around Aziraphale’s shoulders, to clutch Aziraphale against his chest. And Aziraphale goes willingly; he cannot imagine a better fate than to be held by Crowley, to hold Crowley, like this. He slides their lips together, shivering at the sensation of breath ghosting across skin.

When they at last break apart, Aziraphale doesn’t go far. He slides a hand down to the small of Crowley’s back, warmth seeping into his cheeks when he catches Crowley’s eye.

“I love you, Crowley,” he whispers, fierce and certain. It’s a liberating sentence, after suppressing it for all these millennia. “You don’t need to do anything to deserve that. I love you regardless. An archangel, a demon, what you are doesn’t matter, as long as you might be mine.”

Crowley is breathless. “I am yours,” he whispers. His eyes, filled with stunned amazement behind his sunglasses, flutter closed as he leans in to kiss Aziraphale once more. And Aziraphale grins against his lips.

“I love you, too.” The words are muffled almost beyond recognition when Crowley says them, but neither of them are particularly inclined to break the kiss yet.

In fact, they only stop kissing when voices reach them from the end of the canal. Crowley scowls in that direction and mutters something under his breath about tourists. Aziraphale steps back and straightens his waistcoat.

He’s surprised by how breathless he feels. He shouldn’t need to breathe, of course, but it’s become a habit. One he might do well to abandon, though, he reflects as he contemplates Crowley’s lips.

Crowley catches his eye and smirks. “Well, that was a better ending to that conversation than I expected,” he says in a tone that’s equal parts pleased and astonished.

Aziraphale tilts his head. “Did you really think I would condemn you for this? For Falling from that position?”

Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale can only shake his head. He has a distinct feeling that only time will convince Crowley that he is worthy of affection, despite the mistakes he has made.

Well, only time—and love.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and tugs him along. ”Come, you ridiculous, darling thing. Much more of the city to see.”

Crowley follows, looking relieved. He drapes an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Lead on, Angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> There really is a statue of Raphael on the corner of the Doge's Palace in Venice.
> 
> I started writing this six months ago... Oops. Someday I'll finish a fic in a reasonable amount of time.


End file.
